A War You'll Never Win
by hattalove
Summary: So, yeah, it was perfectly normal that his hands itched to go and beat the bastard into a bloody pulp every evening after he unleashed a string of vicious insults at his boyfriend for not having cleaned, gone shopping, cooked dinner, showered. Puckurt.


They've lived in the two-bedroom next to his for as long as he could remember.

When he first came over to say hi, they seemed normal enough - aside from the fact that they were two guys – their apartment furnished in light, playful colors, and they politey kicked him out after twenty minutes like every other young couple in love would. He passed them both on the street and in the corridors often enough, especially the younger one, Kurt, dragging grocery bags – they exchanged a few words here and there, asked after their families and complained about uncut lawns. Nothing exceptional.

Two months after that, he'd almost started thinking they moved away. For a couple of days, there was no bluish light of the TV in the evenings streaming from their bedroom window, no laundry drying in the backyard, no soundtracks blasting at full volume that usually accompanied Kurt cleaning.

Then it went back to normal like nothing ever happened. He saw them more often again – their smiles not so bright, step a little heavier than he remebered, but it was still them.

It was just a few weeks later when it started and Puck has been questioning himself ever since.

Just a fight, at first. If it was a bit too loud, he didn't mention anything to Kurt when he saw him on the stairs the next day. Things like that happened in relationships – the fact that Puck himself had never lasted in one for more than two weeks spoke for itself.

When the first lamp broke, it was a rainy October evening with the street lights flickering outside. The corridors were quiet and the crash went off like a bomb. Puck heard Miss White from the apartment opposite his open the door and walk out with the typical shuffle of her slippers resounding in the now deafening silence.

He heard her quiet knock and, if he listened very carefully, Kurt's breathy reassurance of "everything is perfectly okay, just a little accident, thank you for your concern, ma'am".

After the fifth time, when everything got a little too big, too loud to hide, she stopped coming out.

The thing was, Puck knew perfectly well what it's like to feel absolutely miserable - he's seen the look on his own face too many times growing up. Colorless skin, chapped lips and swollen, tired eyes often greeted him in the mirror in the mornings, exactly like they did these days in the corridors. He felt just as helpless as all those years ago. His heart broke just a little bit more every time another shouting match ended in slamming doors, starting cars and Kurt's barely audible, desperate sobs Puck heard through the bedroom wall.

On those nights, cursing himself for being a coward, he sat, whispering words of reassurance and not moving untill all that echoed from the other side was silence.

It was April, supposedly the time of the year when everything started blooming, flooding the world with colours and new life.

The weather in Ohio obviously didn't quite get that – it was cold, rainy, the last snow was still melting and Kurt was sitting on the curb chain-smoking mint cigarettes, again. He was only wearing sweatpants and a cardigan and Puck could see his hand shaking from his living room window on the third floor.

He didn't need to look at his face to know that Kurt was crying silently, perfectly complementing the weather and the heavy rain, soaking his overgrown hair. It was another sign of the person he's become – the old Kurt would never let his hairstyle be destroyed like that.

Of course, the old Kurt did style his hair in the first place.

Puck was getting steadily better at lying to himself. By February, he'd been absolutely convinced there were no finger-shaped bruises on Kurt's forearms, no frequent visits from concerned relatives that were left standing outside the door, even no piles of broken furniture by the dumpster every other week. His childhood used to be the same and everyone had always told him it's fine, it's normal and nothing he should be concerned about, even with seven stitches in his head after he failed a math course in seventh grade.

So, yeah, it was perfectly normal that his hands itched to go and beat the bastard into a bloody pulp every evening after he unleashed a string of vicious insults at his boyfriend for not having cleaned, gone shopping, cooked dinner, showered. It was perfectly normal to silently cry and soothingly talk to a wall while it was the person on the other side of it that needed help.

Then the time slowly shifted into May, the weather was still gloomy and depressing and Puck settled for pouring himself a glass for every cigarette butt he counted in the overgrown grass underneath his window.

It was two in the morning. June. Puck couldn't sleep even if it wasn't for the insomnia he'd developed in the last couple of weeks – things were being thrown around behind his bedroom wall again, sometimes hitting it and sounding way too loud for Puck's liking.

He considered getting a glass of whiskey to help him sleep. Every time he tried to get up, though, there was another shout, another smash, or just a too-long period of silence and, for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to move.

A door slammed somewhere in the distance – probably the living room, or maybe the kitchen, so the dick could drown himself in the only cheap brand of beer he could afford with his salary.

Puck reached out his hand to stroke the wall with his fingers, as has become a habit for him – he was waiting for the silent sobs to come, just like they did every night.

A minute later, the unmistakable sound of a body hitting a matress sounded together with the familiar, soft sounds of Kurt's way of coping.

If Puck concentrated, he could almost feel the warmth of the other man's body, smell the mint on his clothers and hitching breath, for a second wanting nothing more than to be there for him, no matter how normal the screaming matches were according to his Dad's psychiatrist friend.

On a July night that found all of the building's inhabitants awake again, there was a quiet knock on Puck's door. He almost didn't hear it over the loud shout of "whore" that seemingly echoed everywhere, including the inside of his head.

He walked over and turned the doorknob, not knowing what to expect – it certainly wasn't Miss White in a fluffy lavender bathrobe, slippers on her feet and her little, angry Yorkshire terrier tucked under her arm, looking at him in a way that sent him back to his Nana's house when he'd gotten caught stealing cookies from the pantry.

She didn't say anything, and, frankly, she didn't have to. He could read everything in her startlingly blue eyes, clear as day – _you're a pitiful excuse for a human being, Noah Puckerman_. It probably wasn't meant to make him feel worse than he already did.

If it was, though, it worked.

His mother called on August 5th, around five in the afternoon, and caught him sitting by the kitchen table reading a two-weeks-old newspaper.

_Your father is dead_, was all she said – she probably thought he wouldn't hear the relieved undertone in her voice.

So, his father was dead. Seventeen years of drunken screams and smashing chairs, of hiding under the stairs with a small hope it had been a good day at work and there was no beating waiting for him. Of not having friends, because he was silent, bruised and could never invite them over for a visit. Of eating everything he could before it dissapeared from the fridge and puking it out half an hour later.

Seventeen years of being Puck, because Noah was the name his mother gave him – it was all gone.

It wasn't even dark outside and there was another battle starting in the once upon a time cozy two-bedroom next door.

There was no hesitation in the way Puck stood up and almost kicked over his chair; in the way he stormed out of his front door, knocked – the flat was dark the air stale - and spent twenty minutes beating the shit out of the guy.

The car starting down on the street felt like it was the last time any of them would hear the sound and later, after finally holding Kurt in his arms, easing his sobs and whispering the promises of happily ever after into his hair instead of a wall, something broke and warmth flooded Puck all the way to his fingertips. Maybe he could finally give himslef a shot at living.

When they finally moved into one flat on a late September evening, Puck could literally feel Miss White's eyes on his back as he was closing the door behind them.  
>She was probably sitting in an armchair, petting her terrier and smirking in satisfaction.<p> 


End file.
